“But that’s not all. The real ‘Alcide’,” she wound up with a faint smile across the table at him, “is here. Whence she came,—who she was,—and what she wanted,—were questions which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was about to seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a gesture of silence from the lady. Once a thriving town before the Pestilence, most of the buildings and the piers had been destroyed or burned. The expression, however, which would chiefly have interested a beholder, was that of settled and profound melancholy. He opened the drawer of the writing table. “Think of the mockery!” she said. Help—should she need it—from the natives was out of the question.
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